


Forged In Veela's Blood

by Faeriniel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Harry Potter, F/M, Veela (Harry Potter), Veela Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faeriniel/pseuds/Faeriniel
Summary: A witch obsessed with Fleshcrafting takes baby Harry from Private Drive before the Dursley's even know he's there. Using forbidden magics, she will mold the last Potter like clay into something the world has never seen before. A Dark start, but not a dark story. No set parings yet, so let me know your OTP! An attempt at serious take on Veela Harry. No Harems, I promise.





	1. The Law Of Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> This is a live document. As such I am looking for feedback and ideas from the community at large. I encourage you to share your thoughts in the comments below.

It was the choice to use blue wax to seal a letter that changed everything.

 

Of course Albus Dumbledore was not, nor could he be, aware of the consequences of his choice. Indeed he was actually going out of his way to be considerate. After spending over an hour carefully balancing out just a hand full of paragraphs, a most time consuming endeavour when one took into account his prodigious intellect, Albus had elected not to use the standard shade of deep red to seel this most important letter.

 

He remembered well his brief yet heartbreaking exchange with Lily Evans’ sister. How he wished he could have granted her request all those years ago. But it seemed the touch of magic was destined to pull the sisters apart. He hoped they had been strong enough the bare it; family was to be cherished. He had learned that at terrible cost.

 

No, it would do no good to remind Petunia of her rejection anymore than was already likely to happen. Especially in light of the burden he was asking her to bear. So Albus changed the colour of the cooling wax to blue.

 

It might not have had such drastic consequences if an exhausted Zoologist hadn’t let a number of his charges escape some weeks prior.

 

 

***

 

 

A Male Satin Bowerbird was lost. It didn’t know that, but it was nearly 17,000 kilometres from home. All it knew was that it had been trapped and now it was free. Unbeknownst to its captors, the poor avian had been increasingly distraught over its inability to build a nest in the hopes of enticing a mate and so, even though it was not yet season, the Bowerbird’s sharp eyes were on the lookout for anything and everything to line a nest with.

 

It just so happened that as he was sweeping low on a cooler current of air that the night lit up once more and down below him, something glossy and blue winked up at him.

 

 

***

 

Harry Potter was sleeping deeply in his blankets, ensconced within a warming charm atop the Dursley’s front step. So it was quite understandable that he didn’t take any notice of the thief that swooped in and stole away with his letter of introduction, blue wax and all.

 

***

 

A figure moved between the pools of light offered by the street lamps with a strange rolling gait. The figure’s face was obscured by the heavy black fabrics draped over its hunched form, in stark contrast to the other magicals that had graced this area only hours before.

 

The figure brought its pale, rake thin arm to its breast, its unnaturally long fingers, each sporting an extra joint, twined through the messy ends of long multi tonal hair for comfort.

 

This ‘Surry’ was hideously uniform. Each house, each street, each block poured from the same mold. It disgusted the artist within her; and she was an artist, no matter what the plebeians might think. Yet that disgust was useful to her. For in the face of this awful conformity, she would bring forth something new and unique in challenge. She immersed herself in the drab world of the mundanes from time to time, for even the teeming hordes of Dull Bloods had their use in offering contrast. But this night, they had produced nothing but a growing feeling of contempt.

 

A forked tongue slipped free between cracked lips and tasted the air. It told her that the night tasted of that most unexpected of things for a place like this, Magick. So she followed the tongue as it thrashed this way and that, as if it were trying to pull itself free from where she’d grafted it to the jagged root of her original tongue.

 

Soon she stood outside Number 4 Privet Drive. One hand still playing with her hair, a second guided the gate open carefully and the third arm clutched the fence post to help heave her heavy, stooping form up the single, blue stone step.

 

A patch of hair on her scalp tingled as she crossed the threshold, letting her know that the air around this most odiously ordinary house was teaming with power. There was a ritual afoot, not yet complete, still waiting for the catalyst. The moment roiled with potential, the cusp before climax.

 

And there, upon the doorstep, lay a child swaddled and left in a wicker basket to await the coming of a new day. It slept deeply, safe within the eye of the storm, ignorant of the churning blood magics that whirled around it.

 

Oh how it made her chest ache to know that someone out there still knew of the old ways and was trying to invoke the Law of Surprise.

 

She bent down and gently drew the basket into her embrace while her third hand pulled the shawl free from around her neck to reveal a single eye blinking from within the hollow of her Suprasternal Notch. She dabbed at the tears that constantly fell from the organ she’d liberated from a particularly vicious _Likho_.

 

She turned the eye to the child and gasped.

 

It was said that a Likho’s eye let them see the strings that fate wound around a soul. Her own brain, incredible though it was, would never be capable of interpreting the sensations properly but she was still able to discern a glow to those so marked. It was a rare Dull Blood who might have the slightest flicker, while the common witch or wizard might appear like a candle across a dark room. The Foundling in her arms glowed like a small sun.

 

Here stolen eye winced and she quickly covered it again, and as the eye recovered from the glare, the afterimage that had burned itself into her ill gotten retina coalesced into the shape of a lightning bolt.

 

“ _Sohvealoh!_ "

 

With growing excitement, she opened her mouth and began to sing words long forbidden into the stillness of the night. She knelt there, rocking back and forth, the Foundling held to her bosom in a grim parody of motherhood.

 

The front door opened slowly and a Dull Blood step onto the front step, clad only in thin nightclothes. Hair, dyed to stave off greys, was trapped in pink rollers. Blank eyes stared out of a hard face. Her thin arms we dotted with goose-pimples from the cold but the crooning of her visitor washed all that away.

 

The muggle stiffly held out her hand, palm open to the night sky. The stranger ran a long fingernail over the wrinkled flesh, drawing blood which she collected quickly in a vial.

 

Then the singing stopped, and the horse-faced Dull blood returned to her senses. She gasped, then her eyes met the monster that stooped on her doorstep. She let out an almighty shriek and frantically swung the door closed.

 

The stranger chuckled softly to herself.

 

“So Foundling, it appears you’ve been rejected by your blood. No matter, we can change that.” She heaved herself to her feat, “We can change everything.”

 

And between steps, the monster that would forevermore haunt Petunia Dursley’s nights disappeared from Surrey.

 


	2. The call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking for feedback. If anything is unclear to you please let me know and I'll make changes accordingly.

West Bromwich was not a place one expected to find magic. No one who lived there had the time or good cheer to consider such whimsy anymore. It was a place people living far away might read about and sighed, before turning the page of their morning paper and putting it from their mind. Because people did not want to think about West Bromwich and they certainly did not want to think about the same thing happening to their homes. West Bromwich was a dying place. The people who could leave, had. Those who stayed, well they had other more earthly concerns.

 

It was the perfect place for her, she mused; and not for the first time as she often found herself ruminating on her own genius. A price of having a mind that outstripped all others was having no one around worth talking to. Not as an equal anyway. 

 

It was here that she could shroud herself in the gestalt rejection that humans naturally felt for the weak and dying. The subtle power of so many minds, primitive as they were, desperately trying not to think about this place provided the most subtle of protections. One that no act with a wand could hope to match so long as she did not disrupt the delicate balance. 

 

She had found a forgotten corner of a dilapidated redbrick factory, its workforce, the lifeblood of the buildings purpose long since drained away by the pressure of the times. Hidden behind wrought iron fences and mouldering mortar, set within the shadows that the noon sun never quite chased away, she had placed an unassuming wooden crate.

 

The crack of her return had sent the filthy buzzards that called this corpse home flapping wildly into the air. As she had feared the discomfort of Apparition had woken the Foundling. It took one look at her form and began to wail in fear. In a flash her free hand deftly drew her gnarled wand and silenced the child but not before she caught sight of it’s beautiful deep green eyes.

 

She ran a singled finger across the child’s brow, careful not to let her claw like nails tear at his soft skin. Oh how those beautiful orbs tempted her. How she longed to pluck them from his cherubic face and have them for her very own.

 

She bit her lip to bleeding, fangs stolen from worthy creatures tearing easily through her soft tissue. No she admonished herself, she must control those impulses. She didn’t need to take them for her own. All that he was and ever would be, was going to be hers. She would shape him into a being of distressing perfection, a thematic counterpart to her other great works. He was going to be perfect. So perfect it hurt to look upon.

 

She dared another glance at his tantalising eyes. Perhaps. she mused, there was something to be said for heterochromia.

 

“ _ Close your eyes child or I shall pluck them from your face _ !” she hissed trusting to the disquieting nature of Salazar’s gift to cow the boy. Amazingly the infant suddenly quieted, shut its eyes tight and hid its face behind two small hands.

 

She almost dropped him in her surprise.

 

“ _ Do you understand me, child? _ ” she asked, her twin hearts suddenly thundering in her chest.

 

No response. Was it just a coincidence? But it was so specific- threaten the eyes, protect the eyes. Then it occurred to her that a child this young could hardly be expected to know how to answer such an abstract response.

 

She paused just before the lid of the wooden box she called home. If he was indeed a Parselmouth, then without a base language like English to filter through, he would only grasp her words on an instinctual level. Threaten the eyes. Protect the eyes.

 

“ _ If you are hungry, make noises _ ,” she hissed. The child began to fuss.

 

“ _ If you thirst, be silent. _ ” And again the child complied, it’s eyes still shut.

 

She was shaking now. How was it possible that a child, abandoned to the suspect mercies of muggles, possessed Salazar’s final gift? One more test was needed. she lay the basket down atop the wooden box and conjured a snake. It came to rest on the boy’s chest, hissing angrily.

 

“ _ Command the serpent, child _ .” she instructed, dismissing the charm that silenced him then pointing at the snake.

 

The boys bright eyes met the snake’s and after a moment the boy hissed. Like she expected, it was not quite words. Without a base language like English to work from, the foundling could only manage broad impressions.

 

_ Peace, curiosity, refuge. _

 

The Snake responded instantly and coiled itself on his chest, the better to enjoy his warmth. The boy smiled and ran a clumsy hand along the python’s smooth scales.

 

The moment was broken by the harsh cackles of the witch. She brought the basket back into her embrace, her free hand wedging claw like fingers under the lid. With terrible strength she forced the lid to open, despite the screeching protest of rows of large rusted nails.

 

She held the boy close and dived head first into the depths of the crate.

 

***

 

Minerva McGonagall slapped her copy of the Daily Prophet onto her desk in resignation, hiding the now familiar photo of a beautiful blonde child smiling shyly from the front cover. The search for little Anastasiya had been called off by the Bulgarian authorities after more than two years and a near constant presence in the press. The Veela communities across Europe were furious. Rightfully so, thought Minerva. If the poor dear wasn’t dead already, well one didn’t have to think hard to figure out what kind of life a captive Veela might live.

 

It was likely that the ICW was going to have to step in.

 

Minerva cast her gaze about, hoping for a distraction, when she finally noticed the date written in small print on the corner of the Prophet. She must be slipping, how had she managed to forget all about the Solstice? It must have been all those damnable interviews for the defence position she’d been forced to sit through.

 

With a slight groan, that she would deny ever escaped her, she was out of her stiff backed chair and was making her way towards the Book of Names in the Headmaster’s office, her tartan dress whisking back and forth. She navigated the complex tapestry of winding staircases and hidden doors with practised ease, chatting briefly with Poppy as they crossed paths. Soon she stood before the large stone gargoyle that bared the way to the headmasters office.

 

“Jelly Skulls,” she ground out tersely, once again bemoaning Albus’ lamentable  fixation with candied passphrases. Then she was spiraling gentle upwards as the twirling staircase carried her onward.

 

She dutifully knocked on the door, even though she was sure that Albus was currently sitting at the end of the boathouse pier, dapping his toes in the lake trying to entice the Squid into surfacing. Once propriety had been assuaged, she turned the handle and strode in. Without breaking stride, she summoned the names of those marked down by their families with a flick of her wand, and the roles fluttered through the air from somewhere within Albus’ many desk draws.

 

Minerva then opened the small door into the  little used side room that held the book of names. Inside the narrow stone tower, at the centre of the cramped space sat the Book of Names, responsible for locating this years Muggleborns.

 

The relatively modest tome lay open beneath a fabulously complex array of lenses held in place by a glittering spiderwork of silver wires. The glass orbited around a single shaft of light let in by a small aperture in the distant ceiling. On this one day in particular, the light would hit the brass rimmed lenses, in just the right way as to be bounced, refracted, focused and dispersed in a mesmerising and ever changing dance as the layers of glass shifted constantly through the air above her. 

 

Then the shimmering light would converge once more into a single point that struck a cut Malachite affixed to the stone podium that the book sat upon. From there the names and addresses of the prospective Muggleborn students would be imprinted on the open pages below by the gentle glow of the empowered Malachite.

 

Alone in the cramped and stuffy room, Minerva could secretly indulge her guilty hobby. She knew it was in terribly bad taste these days, but reasoned that it didn’t hurt anyone and regardless, nobody would find out anyway.

 

She read through the names of Muggleborns looking for names now lost to the magical world. Rare though it was, lines that were thought to have died out sometimes returned, through Squibs that had left the magical world behind generations ago.

 

She thought back to the hubbub that erupted when the Peregrine name returned from the muggle world to claim their vault, and the many debts still owed to the family. And she had been the first to know!

 

Her good mood evaporated when she read through the list and came across a name that didn’t belong. The words, ‘ _ Mr H. Potter’  _ were being etched into the paper. In almost thirty years of teaching at Hogwarts the Book of Names had never done  _ anything  _ like this before! Somehow Hogwarts was calling out for Harry Potter.

 

She blinked repeatedly, but the words stubbornly remained. Then her blood ran cold when she finally read his address.

 

_ The smallest vat _

_ The Echidna’s Cave _

_ West Bromwich _

 

She whipped her wand down and in an instant, she held a copy of the book. In one smooth motion she turned towards the door and her body shifted into a sleek feline form. Her claws bit deep into the plush carpet and the powerful muscles or her legs strained as she launched herself at the open window that dominated the westward side of the Headmaster's office.  

 

She cut through the air, landing lightly on the windowsill before once more propelling herself onto the slate tiles of the Hogwarts roof. She bounded from precipices winding her way through the myriad crenellations of the ancient castle, always downward, until something in her animal brain said she could survive the three story drop onto the soft lawn below. 

 

She flung herself off the low outcrop of one of the wings of the building and hurtled towards the verdant turf below. When she landed, she didn’t waste a moment before she was flowing back into her human form, her wand struck out towards the Quidditch Pitch and in less than ten strides a school broom hung before her in the air. 

 

Then she was racing low across the wavy green hills of the Hogwarts grounds, flying like an arrow towards the boathouse. Towards Albus. She bent low over the rickety old broom and set the still water of the lake to churning as she rocketed by, scant inches above it.

 

Albus looked up from his conversation with the Squid and waved merrily at her, his face dripping with black ink. 

 

'Minerva! I haven't seen you move that fast since-'

 

'Albus!' gasped Minerva as she fought to catch her breath, 'You promised never to bring  _ that  _ up again.' 

 

'Of course, I only meant-'

 

'Not,' Minerva wheezed as she staggered off her broom and onto the pier, 'Another,' she gasped in a great lung full of air, 'word!'

 

Albus simply chuckled, his eyes twinkling madly.

 

'Look at this!' cried Minerva as she held the copied pages of the book in front of Albus.

 

'Forgive me, Minerva, but why exactly has Mr. T. Ecbole's acceptance letter so agitated you?'

 

'Not that one!' said Minerva with a scowl She then thrust a finger at Harry Potter’s name, and more worryingly, the address innocently written beneath it. 'This one!'

 

'Oh dear.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend too much time obsessing over minor details that I can't expect anyone to notice. So I'll share some here.
> 
>  
> 
> West Bromwich was hit by economic recession during the 1980's. 
> 
> The idea of "gestalt rejection" having power comes from the Old World of Darkness game system. Normal humans were called "Sleepers" and their collective understanding of the world shaped what magics were possible.
> 
> Twin hearts is a vague reference to Dr. Who
> 
> I deliberatly didn't use any extra ssss when denoting Parseltongue. 
> 
> Anastasiya is the Bulgarian version of Anastasia, meaning to resurrect.
> 
> I set the Letter day as the summer solstice which would have been 21st June in 1983. This ties in nicely with book 1.
> 
> Malachite is associated with manifestation, change and self empowerment which should ultimately be the goal of any education. It would also give of a green light which ties in nicely with the green ink used in the letters.
> 
> The name Peregrine means "Traveler" which I thought fitting for a family that had left the magic world, only to return years later.
> 
> In Book 5 Minerva is asked by Deloris how long she's been working at Hogwarts for. She answer's ‘Thirty-nine years this December,’ - FB:CoG can go to hell.


End file.
